


Locked In

by hueligan



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Elliot - Freeform, Elliot Alderson - Freeform, Gen, Gen Fic, Mr. Robot - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 15:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5380724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hueligan/pseuds/hueligan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elliot falls apart in his apartment. Post-season 1, some timeline distortion. Where are we left when everything leaves us?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Locked In

There’s a certain gentle squeak that comes from the scraping of a pestle on powder, like porcelain pieces rubbing together. I always think it sounds too delicate for what comes after, but for now I can’t think that far ahead. It’s one-two-three, a quick succession of movements I could do in my sleep, into the mortar and ground down, out on the glass and racked up into a neat line. There’s a cut-off piece of drinking straw that never leaves my coffee table, and it leads the way for the powder from the mirror into my brain. 

That’s the third one tonight. I know I should slow down, but now doesn’t seem like the time for temperance. I’m out of Suboxone. That was over with a long time ago. 

Angela won’t stop texting about her same tired game with Ollie. He cheated on her again, but this is only the second time, as far as she knows. She’s saying things that make me think she’s getting ready to move on from me. It makes sense. We’ve been so far apart for so long, I can’t blame her. I can’t say it scares me. I can’t really say what it does to me.

Darlene knocked on my door three times in the past week, and I pretended I wasn’t home. Good thing for the new lock, or she’d have come right in. I saw her leaving through the window, and each time she seemed angrier. I owe her an explanation, now that it’s been three weeks (or has it? who really knows). I know she wants to help, but I can’t deal with her concern right now. She has other motives too, I’m sure of it, but fsociety doesn’t need me right now either. 

I think about Vera. I know he’ll come back. He’s too full of anger, too vindictive to walk away where he left off. It was Shayla first, but what happens now? I can protect myself behind a screen, can even launch a pre-emptive attack if I need to. But not if I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing, and he’s leaving no trace. He’s off the grid. For all I know, he’s living off his drug pension in Cancun, and one of his paid-off homies can find me any time I leave my apartment. I keep thinking I see them, on the train, on the way to work, especially in my own neighborhood.

No one’s heard from Tyrell, and some part of me knows I’m the one to ask. The guy’s a tinderbox and an easy use for a power play, and I’m afraid Mr. Robot may have seen that before I did. No. It was me. Whatever happened to Tyrell, it was me. A month ago I wouldn’t have worried, but I’ve realized by now I’m capable of almost anything.

And then there’s Gideon. He’s not the least of my problems. He’s on my back all the time now, looking for something he can’t place. He knows something’s up but he doesn’t know what to make of it. Part of me wishes it wasn’t like that. He wanted the best for me, for everyone. I betrayed his trust, but I had to. Being this involved means you run out of options.

“You should slow down.” I hear the words like he’s right next to me, but I don’t need to look up to know he’s not. He’s in my head. I’m imagining things.

I keep my eyes on my razor blade, bunching up another line from one side, then the other. “You’re not real.”

“We’ll skip that argument for now.” He sighs. I sigh. “What are you doing, Elliot?”

Shit, the powder’s still rocky. I have to grind it up again. I dump it back in and answer him while I’m stirring. “I’m handling things. I think that’s good.” I’m not asking a question, so maybe he won’t answer.

He moves a bit so I have to look up at him. He looks like he hasn’t changed clothes in weeks. His beard’s grown out. He looks like I feel. My dad used to look like that sometimes when things were rough with my mom. But he’s not my dad. 

“You’re killing yourself when we have important things to do.” I look up at him for real, because apparently he’s here for now. Eye contact, as brief as it is, and his head bounces back. “Jesus. You look like hell.”

“I don’t have time for you.” I pour the powder out again. Good. Looks clear this time. “I don’t want you here.”

“You need me here.” He bends down, puts his hands on the table on either side of my mirror. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you wanted to, and trust me, kiddo, you don’t want to.” He cranes his neck down, trying to catch my eyes. “I’m all you’ve got.”

No. No, damn it. That’s enough. I know where they are, in the kitchen cabinet. Maybe I’ll bluff him out. I stand up and take the few steps to the cupboard, digging for the little white bag from the pharmacy. My meds. The ones I’ve been itching to throw away.

“You know what’ll happen if you take those now? With ninety milligrams of morphine in your system? You’ll fall asleep on your couch and stop breathing, and the cops will find you in two weeks when the neighbors call in about the smell.”

Shit, he’s right. If there’s ever a time to start taking my meds, now isn’t it. I’ve still got the bag in my hand.

“So why don’t you sit back down and we’ll talk?”

I hate him, more now since I know what he is. He’s right, even when he’s wrong, and I can’t seem to fight him. I fall down on the couch. Through the morphine, it’s hazy, clouded, a little euphoric but not enough for this. 

He crouches down, folds his hands on the table. “We’ve got big plans, and as always, it’s gonna be you at the forefront.”

The line’s all ready, looking tidy on the mirror. He’s going to tell me the plan, all about how we’ll break down Evilcorp another piece at a time. Buy freedom for the world. My plan. I can’t look at him. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t--

The line’s up my nose almost before I can think. That’s too much. Fuck. Four times too much. A hundred and twenty milligrams of morphine crawling in my veins. Three breaths--in, out... in, out... in, out. I can’t feel anything. When I drag my eyes up from the mirror, he’s not there. He finally left me. That’s a good thing. That’s supposed to be a good thing.

It’s quiet like this. I don’t worry, but I still think. Slow, inefficient. Shit, this is way too much. I’m wasted. My mind isn’t working, but my body’s still moving. God, I hate it when I’m out of control. 

My elbows hit the table. My head hits my hands. It seems the right kind of thing for what I think I’m feeling. “I can’t do this.” I’m saying it out loud, and maybe it will fill some of the space that’s everywhere. “I can’t do this, I can’t do this.” I can hear my breath. It's too quiet. I wish it would fill up my apartment, fill up the emptiness. “I can’t do this anymore.” 

I’m alone. Alone as I’ve ever been. Shayla isn’t there on the other side of the hall. Angela is elsewhere, and that leaves no one. The morphine isn’t helping. I can’t say why this hurts. I’m so full of painkillers a gunshot shouldn’t phase me. I feel, but I don’t. I’m hollow. All I feel is the draft in my apartment. I hear the echo from my own movements. I’m out of morphine, dry, poor. Out of options. The shit that's already in me is all I have, and I can’t. I can’t. I can’t fucking do this anymore. I’m out of morphine and out of my mind and I can’t fucking do this anymore.


End file.
